


rambling and ripening

by brawlite



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Eavesdropping, Feelings, M/M, Pining, Slice of Life, Unresolved, Unresolved Romantic Tension, and geralt is dummy thicc, anyway jaskier is just a sad lump, but by god does he try, emphasis on the dummy, i would say hurt/comfort but geralt is not so good at comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:08:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22154542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brawlite/pseuds/brawlite
Summary: Geralt isn't one for eavesdropping, but he happens to overhear Jaskier composing a more sorrowful song than usual and cannot help but listen in.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 76
Kudos: 1038





	rambling and ripening

The strum of a lute.

Then, another.

Then:

“ _Shit_ , no, that's not right at all. Too sappy. And _way_ too obvious.”

Geralt stops in his tracks as soon as he hears the muttered, familiar voice. His footfalls are silent against the wooden floors of the inn, as always, though he dares not move a muscle to tempt fate.

The door to the rooms that he and Jaskier are sharing is ajar.

Likely, Jaskier didn't expect Geralt back so soon. The errand Geralt was on -- a quick visit with a mage in a neighboring town for a restock of potion ingredients -- should have taken the better part of the afternoon, leaving Geralt to return by evening, or perhaps even morning, if he were to be distracted by either a monster or a woman along the way. Jaskier likely thought he had plenty of time alone. Geralt should consider himself lucky that he didn't stumble upon Jaskier involved in other, more debauched activities taking place in their shared rooms.

And yet. This does not appear to be an activity for onlookers, either.

Geralt is not typically one for petty eavesdropping. He's not entirely sure _what_ makes him stop, what stills him in his path before interrupting Jaskier in his apparent song composition, but he finds himself lurking all the same, on the other side of the door. He allows himself to creep forward on silent feet, if only to glimpse Jaskier in a quieter moment, not fueled by the attention of onlookers that seems to so often spurn him into perpetual motion and noise. Isolated, Jaskier is more muted, more self-reflecting. Removed from the need to peacock himself around and prove himself with tall tales and grandiose proclamations.

Alone, he is a relatively unknown quantity.

Alone, Jaskier holds secrets Geralt is not privy to. Because while Jaskier seems to voice just about every thought that flits through his mind without much reflection, Geralt also knows that there is much Jaskier doesn't say. He often carves out the parts of stories that Geralt might predict he’d dwell on, he’ll cut himself off mid-sentence whilst rambling, and he’ll avoid whole swaths of subjects entirely, seemingly with no pattern Geralt can discern.

Alone, Jaskier is a curiosity that Geralt cannot help but try and unravel.

The world does not keep too many secrets from witchers. And, after all his years upon this earth, people don’t hold too many secrets from Geralt, either. They are too predictable, too easy. All his journeys have taught him much

Jaskier, however, is sometimes still a mystery.

Somehow, he has wormed his way into Geralt’s companionship, slotting himself right into a space that did not exist before him, and likely will not exist after.

Geralt’s companions are few and far between. They are either paid, or they are born of tumultuous relationships, the kind that cannot stand alone without much needed space in between encounters. Geralt knows himself, knows what he looks for in a companion and what he wishes to avoid -- and Jaskier is all of the latter and nothing Geralt would ever choose.

And still, Geralt allows his company. Allows Jaskier to skirt around in Geralt’s shadow, with his words and his songs and all of the general pandemonium that comes along with his very being. He allows it, and it doesn’t make any sense at all.

“ _I’ve been lost somewhere_ ,” Jaskier sings, plucking a sad note on the lute. “ _Down in the gutters without a care_.”

Most of Jaskier’s songs are upbeat, cheery. Fit for taverns and parties. Geralt has only ever heard him dwell in tragedies and mournful melodies after a particularly fraught separation from a lover, though it has been some time since the last of those. Quite some time, actually. Geralt has only seen Jaskier dart off to the stale embrace of a brothel in the past few months of their travels.

It’s out of the ordinary for the bard, uncharacteristically sedate.

“ _Still can’t believe it’s you I found there_ ,” Jaskier sings.

Then, he makes a frustrated noise and strums angrily at the lute, a discordant and jarring sound filling Geralt’s ears.

“Ugh, that’s not right, either.”

Another note, another few strings plucked with no obvious rhythm.

 _“Your eyes like the sun, they fill me with fire_ ,” he mumbles out. Then, “Ugh, no, not _that_ , that’s _awful_.”

Typically, Jaskier’s songs are inspired by truth and then garnished with lies. Geralt cannot argue against the fact that their travels together have provided much inspiration for the bard, and that his melodies and lyrics have improved greatly since Jaskier first began walking alongside Roach’s patient footfalls. He’s better received in every tavern he chooses to sing in, and his singing isn’t nearly as painful to Geralt’s ears, anymore. It’s still annoying, of course -- but it’s not quite as bad as it once was.

Now, Geralt finds it difficult to pick the scaffolding of truth from the honey of fabrication. It’s all smooth and easy, and not at all familiar. Unless Jaskier is more devious than Geralt thought him, as well as lighter on his feet, then there’s no chance that he’s been sneaking around, liaising with a lover Geralt isn’t aware of.

A few more notes, a few bars hummed.

“ _Throw me a bone, feed me a line_ ,” Jaskier sings. “ _Pour a hard drink for harder times_.”

Geralt can’t see Jaskier’s face with the way he’s sitting, but he can see the jut of his chin in partial profile, illuminated by the soft light of the fire in the room.

Another few bars, some easy strums.

“ _My love’s been waiting for years, a ship lost out at sea_.” He snorts. Laughs, though it’s not at all a mirthful sound. “ _Yeah,_ like _lost_ would ever describe....Gods, this is pathetic. What am I _doing_?”

Jaskier kicks out at the table in front of him, and Geralt watches and listens as the bottles atop it rattle and clink together.

Then, Jaskier strums something mean and sour, and says more than sings: “ _For all that I’m worth, won’t you just look at me?_ ”

With that final note, Jaskier huffs and tosses the lute down on the seat next to him, and folds his head into his hands. His fingers bury into the messy locks of his hair, tangling up into fists.

“This is pathetic. You’re pathetic, Jaskier,” he tells himself as Geralt looks on, hidden in the shadows of the door, steady and resolute in his silence.

Geralt is not dense enough to be unaware that this is the moment a friend would offer comfort. But Geralt is a witcher and Geralt doesn’t _have_ friends, only companions who will either not leave him alone or who clash catastrophically with him -- and besides that, Geralt does not have a bone in his body soft enough to offer sympathy and solace to someone yearning in this manner. The thought of doing so makes him uncomfortable, warm. Too small for his own skin.

Eventually, Jaskier continues on. “Get it together, Jaskier. To love and be loved in return is a fool’s wish, ending only in tragedy. Better to take your leave with pretty strangers and find pleasure in moments with those you will soon forget than ache for someone you will only lose.”

It isn’t a bad sentiment, Geralt thinks. The world is full of woe and anguish. The dangers of life mean that a connection to anyone is a weakness, a liability. A recipe for disaster. At least that was what Geralt was taught, the mantra that was branded into him at such a young age, stitched into his very soul. But someone like Jaskier -- he lives for love and light and warmth. He shouldn’t be filled with the dark emptiness that someone like Geralt thrives upon. Without the fire of passion inside him, surely Jaskier would shrivel and waste away.

Wouldn’t he?

Geralt’s thoughts are interrupted by a laugh, loud and bitter. “Well, no point in dwelling on _that_. First I’d have to _have_ someone to lose, which would mean someone would need to even look my _way_. And like that’s going to happen.”

Jaskier makes a sound, plaintive and pitiful and Geralt decides that enough is enough.

He pushes his way through the door, boots trudging loudly against squeaky wood floors.

“Geralt!” Jaskier says, jumping up from his seat, swiveling to face Geralt and the door. His bright eyes are red-rimmed and his hair is standing on end, mussed from his fists tugging at it.

Geralt hums and drops his bags down onto the floor with a loud clatter.

“How, uh, how long have you been there, Geralt?” Jaskier asks. The friendly, excited tone of his voice betrays the thread of nervousness laced through it, bitter and sour like fear.

Perhaps he does not want Geralt to see his mood so sour or his countenance so close to tears. Which is strange, as Geralt has seen Jaskier weep before in their travels. Many times, even -- from pain to hunger to frustration. Jaskier is an emotional man -- and he draws on such for his songs, tying all those fleeting wisps into appealing words and charming melodies. There is no shame in Jaskier crying. Or, more accurately, there never has been before.

Unwilling to admit to actually eavesdropping, Geralt just grunts. “I’m going to get a drink. Come with me,” he says.

Jaskier stills, frozen like a deer during the hunt. He worries at his lip with his teeth.

“Five minutes? Ten?” Jaskier asks. He frowns. “Fifteen?” 

Geralt cannot provide Jaskier with the true, natural comfort he likely needs at this moment, but he can offer what he can: curt words and the better promise of alcohol to numb his pain. As the only person available to Jaskier at the moment, Geralt will just have to do. So, he steps slowly forward on heavy feet, giving Jaskier time to step away if he so chooses. He doesn’t, and so Geralt lays a hand over his shoulder. He does not squeeze Jaskier’s slender shoulder, but simply lets it rest there.

“We all have our woes, Jaskier.”

Jaskier doesn’t shift, but he does look down at Geralt’s hand. A little surprised. He hums, contemplative. “Okay,” he says. “Five, ten minutes?”

Geralt grunts. “A drink, Jaskier. Come with me.”

Jaskier so loves to drown his sorrows with ale and mead. Perhaps tonight, Geralt will even pay.

“Alright,” Jaskier says, seeming to settle on something. Then, his lips curl into an easier smile. The relief on his face is visible, but Geralt doesn’t understand _why_ it’s there. “It’s _definitely_ been less than five minutes. Let’s go get that drink.”

With that, he pulls away enough to pat Geralt on the back, firmly enough that it’s like some sort of punctuation to his words. Perhaps because he isn’t keen on a frown creeping its way back to Jaskier’s face, Geralt doesn’t even bat his hand away, content only that Jaskier is no longer sulking in front of a fire with his head in his hands.

He doesn’t understand why Jaskier is _so_ relieved, or why his posture has gone more relaxed. His song was not so bad -- even for a first draft that Geralt only heard half of -- and there was nothing shameful about his heartache. Jaskier's eyes are still red-rimmed, but they are brighter than before, and clearer, too. So, perhaps it doesn't matter much at all.

Jaskier keeps his palm on Geralt’s shoulder and leads him from the room, away from the forgotten lute and the fire and the unfinished lyrics hanging in the air, and locks the door behind them.

There’s a question on Geralt’s tongue, misshapen and unexpressed. He half wants to ask, half wants to prod, but Jaskier is smiling easier by the minute and his sorrow seems to be slipping further and further away with every step they take toward the rosy promise of alcohol in the tavern below.

The words linger there, though, at the base of his skull, settling in for the night:

What fucking difference could five minutes _possibly_ make?

**Author's Note:**

> the solid parts of jaskier's song are taken from murder by death's _king of the gutters, prince of the dogs_. the bad parts are by me.
> 
> thank you to [littlesystems](https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlesystems/pseuds/littlesystems) for looking this over real fast and helping me out w the ending (as per the usual).
> 
> as always, any comments or kudos would make my day. talk to me about how consumed you are by the witcher, too.
> 
> i'm on [twitter](https://twitter.com/brawlite) and [tumblr](http://brawlite.tumblr.com), if you are so inclined.


End file.
